


Fighting With My Weak Hand

by citron_presse



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When something is broken and you try to fix it . . .</i>.  Set after 1.06.  Title and summary taken from <i>X & Y</i> by Coldplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting With My Weak Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1.06. Mentions of drug use.

All he did was lift a beer bottle and wave his right arm to make a toast.  Nothing that anyone, least of all him, could call strenuous.   Now the normal world of hanging out, drinking beer, talking about girls is drowned out in the all too familiar and yet always mind-breaking surge of agony.

Shay’s saying something about fresh pastures . . . or maybe fresh meat.  Making a joke at her own expense, he thinks, so he musters a smile.  It’s hard to know for certain, since he feels like he’s in another room now, with walls constructed out of his own pain, and all he can really hear straight is the throbbing in his right shoulder, loud enough to rival even his rapid, pounding heartbeat.

He puts the beer bottle down on the table with too much force, probably -- gripping the neck with his fingers, closing his eyes tight -- because he senses that the stream of conversation stops, followed, after a beat, by:

“Kelly?”

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t really look at her.  Can’t quite yet do it, but more or less opens his eyes.

“Are you –?”

“Yeah.”   He looks up and grins – at least, he tries. “It looked like you had the conversation under control all by yourself!”

She stares at him for a moment, openly concerned, then chooses to buy his act.  They both know he’s taken one step beyond what her friendship and professional ethics can handle, and that’s not changing until he’s ready to do what’s necessary.  She smiles dryly and reaches across the table, slaps him lightly, on his other arm.  The move speaks volumes, and he’d be grateful, almost is, except what he’s really consumed with right now is whether he can slip away to the rest room without getting questioned, and if two beers count as alcohol as far as mixing it with narcotics goes.

“Well, you owe me, Severide!” she begins, admirably only slightly forced.  “I get to talk!  After the bullshit with Peter Mills about his sister!”

He wishes like hell she hadn’t said that.  If there were any room for more pain, the reminder would physically hurt.  Because ten minutes ago, he was thinking about fresh pastures himself, about talking to a woman he kind of liked, getting to know her, making a normal move like a normal guy.  And now? 

Peter Mills would have to be insane to introduce him to his sister.  Because, yeah, he has his moments, he comes through, and he really fucking tries.  But this injury is leaching all that away from him and, what he’s left with, exposed and raw, under the heroic firefighter wrapping -- God, unstable doesn’t even scratch the surface!

“I gotta . . .” He offers, stumbling upwards and out of the booth, pointing towards the rest room.

“Got it,” Shay says softly, half-averting her eyes.

  
Shooting up was quicker; it takes longer with the pills. But it’s so good when they kick in, the flooding absence of pain, it’s almost worth the wait.

  
When he gets back to the table, Elise Mills is sitting on Shay’s side.  They’re both laughing.

“You know Elise,” Shay introduces coyly as he slides back in.

Elise smiles.  He nods, non-committally.  “Yeah,” he says.  “We met at the station, right? Uh . . .” He acts like it was nice, but not memorable, like he wasn’t just acting like a high school kid with a crush, and, after a few more exchanged words, Elise gets up and leaves.

“What the hell was that?” Shay demands.  “You were like –”

“Not the right time,” he interrupts softly.   “Tequila?” he offers.  “On me?” She rolls her eyes, but accepts, and he gets up to go to the bar.

He's almost calm now, the pain so under the surface, it’s almost a memory.  But it’s there, his whole life is there, and he needs to fix it.  He needs to fix it before it caves in and takes him under, because endurance and resignation aren't going to prop him up too much longer.

Just, like he told Shay, it’s not the right time.  He tries not to wonder if it ever will be.


End file.
